


First Came Pride

by AnnieCard



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 007, Bondlock, Comedy, Companionable Snark, Crossover, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Skyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieCard/pseuds/AnnieCard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond is enjoying death. Or at least, he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Came Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own James or Sherlock, except in my most depraved fantasies!

    James staggered out onto the beach, a bottle of raki dangling from his fist, and sat down a few feet from where the waves crushed the shore. He dug his bare toes into the cool sand and took a heroic pull from his bottle. Earlier, the night sky had been clear and full of stars, but now with impending dawn, the sky had gone pale and the celestial lights slowly began to blink out. There was the faintest hint of pink on the horizon; a prelude to the sun. James went for another drink, realized he was out, and heaved a loathsome sigh. Another night of pointless frivolity successfully achieved. Well done.

  
    “You’re bored.” A disembodied voice concluded. A cool and smooth baritone with an English accent. Unfamiliar.

  
    James smirked. He couldn’t be bothered with a backward glance. Instead he examined his empty raki bottle before flicking it up, catching it by the neck and flinging it out to sea. The bottle made a whistling sound as it whirred end over end, until thunking into the surf with a soft splash.

  
    “Am I?” Bond’s reply was dry and un-amused. He had a talent for subtle sarcasm.

  
    “Mm, yes. Dangerously so, I would say.”

  
    “Should I be worried?” James scoffed.

  
    “Yes. Absolutely. Boredom kills.”

  
    “Ah, well…” James gave a cursory shrug, scratching at a patch of blond scruff along his jaw. “There are worse ways to die than of boredom.”

  
    “No there isn’t.”

  
    James made an amused sound, finally hazarding a sideways glance at his impromptu company. He was a tall and lean, mildly athletic man with a very distinct, slightly familiar profile. His pale blue eyes were almost obscured by an unkempt shock of dark hair. Bond combed through a mental file of faces: agents, operatives, terrorists and targets. Nothing popped.

  
    He was dressed similarly to James, in a button down and kakis that had been rolled up from the hem to reveal a pair of pale, slender ankles. His gaze was transfixed on some non-existent point of the horizon and his hands were shoved casually in his trouser pockets. His posture and expression were both stoic. There was something very detached, very cold and calculating contained in this man’s countenance. Everything about him triggered red flags! 007 was quite familiar with the signs of a sociopath. 007 was skeptical. But James didn’t give a shit.

  
    “Have we met?” James asked.

  
    “Not formally.” The stranger pulled his hands from his pockets and sat in the sand a few feet from James. “However you might have seen me around, as you are my primary source of income at the moment.” He flashed him an enigmatic smile.

  
    James raised an inquisitive brow.

  
    “I’ve been betting on the outcomes of your caviler drinking games, the past few nights. Lifting a few easy lira off the locals. Surprisingly lucrative.” The stranger clarified.

  
    “Right.” Bond said with a sober nod. Curious fellow, this one. “So, what sort of man considers boredom dangerous and gambling a means of earning a living?”

  
    “A genius. Obviously.” James’ companion cut his eyes at him narrowly, in a pretentious sneer.

  
    “Yes. Of course.” James couldn’t help but smile. “Obviously.”

  
    “Anyway, it’s only gambling if you don’t know the outcome.”

  
    “And you do?” asked James.

  
    “It’s simple deduction. A mere matter of calculation and good observation.”

  
     “A sound method, I’m sure.”

  
    “On the whole. It isn’t without its…limitations.”

  
    “What a pity.”  

  
    “For example: I can’t yet decide if you are a criminal on the run…or a rogue intelligence agent?”

  
    Well fuck. Bond narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He should have listened to his bloody instincts.

  
    “Who the hell are you?” James’ voice dropped to a dangerous octave. His tone was even, commanding, pregnant with menace.  
    His companion dismissed James’ threatening inquisition with a casual shrug.

  
    “Just another dead man.”

  
    “Coincidently, I don’t find that answer satisfying.”

  
    “I would wager there isn’t much you do find satisfying anymore.”

  
    James glared at him, coolly.

  
    “Sherlock.”

  
    “Excuse me?”

  
    “It’s my name. Sherlock.”

  
    “Sherlock.” James gave his lanky companion an apologetic smile. “I do hope you gave your parents hell for that.”

  
    “To hear my elder brother tell it, I gave the whole family no shortage of hell.” Sherlock said, with an overly contented smile. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he produced a small silver flask.

  
    “So.” Began James. “Have you worked it out yet?”

  
    “Whether you’re a convict or a spy?”

  
    “Hmm.”

  
    “Yes I think so.” Sherlock took a liberal drought from the flask, which he then wordlessly offered to James. Bond held up his hand in polite refusal.

  
    “Spy.” Sherlock decided affirmatively.

  
    “And how do you figure that?”

  
    Sherlock smiled, capping the flask and shoving it in the sand between them. Propping his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers against his pout and narrowed his eyes on the cresting sunrise.

  
    “Firstly, you’ve been using an alias. A device not particularly specific to a spy, but you’re no stranger to lying about your name. You’ve mastered the usual tells: hesitating when asked to introduce yourself, failing to respond when someone calls you by your fake name. Indicative of espionage training. Even I might not have noticed you were lying. Unfortunately you can’t resist looking over your shoulder when you hear your real name being called. That American tourist in the Café Calis last night…his wife called him James, but you thought someone was speaking to you.

    And you turned down my flask just now. Perhaps you were disinterested, but considering the rate at which you’ve laid waste to every cabana from here to Saklikent, I’m guessing that was cautionary. I would say a habitual response, but you’ve otherwise slacked off on protocol, so the obvious conclusion is, that was personal. You’ve been burned before. Poisoned right?

  
    Then there is your disguise. You might look like an average beach bum, to the unobservant, but your intentionally bohemian ensemble has been tailored. Not to mention the fact that there is no reason a man who keeps such a clean haircut shouldn’t regularly shave. Unless, of course, he’s obscuring his face. You’re trying to look ragged.

  
    You only drink black label liquors. You don’t mind dives, but you never eat in them. You’re used to fine things. Could be the product of a posh upbringing, so really, I shouldn’t rule you out as a white collar criminal. Only you seem to have a rare appreciation for your standard of living, which suggests you are a self made man. You still possess the air of an entitled brat, so I’m going to say you are both.

  
    And your time piece cost a small fortune... actually that one is almost too obvious. You’re probably aware that anyone with half a brain would notice a watch that nice doesn’t fit in this picture, but for whatever reason, you won’t give it up. Probably, it’s a gift. Something sentimental. Not my strong area, so I’ll skip it. Point is, for someone as clever as you to be lying about your identity, you’re not overly concerned with being found out.

  
    If you were a criminal you would either be more careful or more paranoid. You’re neither. If you were a criminal, someone would be looking for you. No. You’re not worried about that. Because no one is looking for you, are they James? And why not? Well, why would anyone look for a dead man?”

  
    Sherlock broke his trancelike pose and looked to James, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Clearly he was pleased with himself and probably expected James to be impressed. Actually, he was just mildly annoyed.

  
    “Alright.” Said Bond. “My turn.” James replicated Sherlock’s pose, steepled his fingers and touched them to his chin. “You’re a pretentious cock, and you don’t have friends.”

  
    “I have one.” said Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my very first ever attempt at a fanfiction of any kind. Any feedback is welcome. Polite feedback will be met with extreme gratitude!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and gave feedback! I originally wanted to make this a multi-chaptered work but until such a time as I can think of a direction to take this, it is a completed work.


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